


equilateral

by LadyMerlin



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship & Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mid-Season 2, Other, Past Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Pre-Charlestown, Tenderness, This is not a fix-it, Warning: Charlestown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: On the way to Charlestown, James apologises to Miranda.
Relationships: Miranda Barlow & Captain Flint | James McGraw, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw
Kudos: 13





	equilateral

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I have mad fucking respect for Black Sails, and the way the writers and everyone involved basically said “fuck your love triangle, have an OT3 instead”, but something about that shouting match between Miranda and Flint in s02e05 rubbed me a little wrong. So while I’m waiting for RL to let me continue past s03e07, here’s a little filler scene that I wrote between Miranda and Flint, before Charlestown. 
> 
> ~
> 
> M: … The [voice] telling you to be ashamed of yourself, for having loved him. You were told that it was shameful and part of you believed it. Thomas was my husband. I loved him and he loved me. But what he shared with you, it was entirely something else. It’s time you allowed yourself to accept that.
> 
> F: The only thing I am ashamed of is that I didn’t do something to save him, when we had the chance. That instead I listened to you.

Flint knows he has a sharp tongue. That isn’t any great secret. That his temper can be as foul and vicious as the edge of a cutlass is also well documented, in a hundred stories people tell each other about him. He knows his reputation and he wields it as well as he would any other weapon. He is less a man now and more an arsenal, but he has come to accept it. He tries to live his life without shame.

He has rarely been more ashamed of himself than when he raises his voice to Miranda.

He is not able to speak with her, after that, until the ship is underway to Charles Town. Even then, he cannot begrudge Miranda the comfort of spending time with the Ashe girl when she has been starved of female companionship for so many years, because of him. 

The shame of snapping at her burns inside his belly like liquid fire. He tries to make up to her by offering her (and the Ashe girl) the comfort of his cabin, by arranging for their meals apart from the rest of the men, by treating them the way ladies would have been on any of Her Majesty’s Ships. 

For Miranda, he would have done this anyway, and his men would have respected the myth of Mrs Barlow (or else). But it has been a long time since Flint scrounged up shreds of English hospitality for strangers. Silver and Billy step in, thankfully, and for a week and a half, the men are better behaved than Flint has ever seen them, around both Miranda and the Ashe girl. It’s a miracle. 

It’s only on the eve of their arrival to Charles Town that he and Miranda are able to speak without fear of being overheard. Flint knows they will be arriving at the harbour within twelve hours, and that there’s a chance he might not survive. There has never been a better time to apologise for his behaviour.

“You know what I said, back in Nassau?” He asks, an abrupt segue from discussing their plans on how to approach Lord Ashe. 

She blinks at him, but it is not easy to disconcert a woman as brilliant as Miranda. She’s wearing a cream-and-white gown, similar to every other gown he’s ever seen her wear on Nassau, save that the front panel of the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered flowers and leaves. Flint has watched her doing the embroidery himself in the dim light of evening, in front of her fireplace night after night, never once complaining. 

The dress is far poorer than anything he has seen Eleanor Guthrie or even the brothel madam, Max, wear in recent days. She looks like a queen. 

He loves her so much his heart aches with it. 

“You might have to remind me,” she replies evenly. Flint knows what his men say; that their women are prone to playing games, that this might be a verbal trap. His men are idiots, and he has never once thought that Miranda enjoyed games such as those. 

“When I shouted at you, and said that I was ashamed that I had followed you. None of that was true, Miranda.” 

“Ah,” she says, in that way she does when she’s buying time to compose her thoughts; a remnant of a lady’s education. “It’s alright, James. We have said and done to each other far more egregious things than putting a voice to what we both have felt. I do not deny that I have thought it, myself.”

Flint stills, feeling the blood drain from his face, leaving him cool and empty. He shakes his head and reaches across the table, leaving an upturned hand in front of her, within easy reach if she chooses to take it. He wishes he’d sat down beside her and not across, to better wrap his arms around her thin shoulders and hold her close to his chest. “I do not think it,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I swear to you, Miranda, I do not.” 

She does not look like she believes him, and he had not thought it possible for something to hurt so much when every day he is surrounded by men who do not believe him. But those are only men, and this is Miranda, in whose chest his heart resides. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and she does not begrudge him the moment to compose himself. 

For all that the love between himself and Thomas had been like the burning of a fire, it does not do to forget that first, he had loved her. 

It is the lightest touch of her fingers on his upturned palm that brings him back to himself, out of a maelstrom of memories as terrifying as any he’s seen on the high seas. He is a fool. It is the work of moments to round the table and sink to his knees in front of her. His bones creak and ache so much more than they had the last time he did this, but it only serves to bring into sharp relief the distance that has been growing between them, because of him. 

He has been loyal to her as a man would his lawful wife, though it is not a fair comparison, as what he shared with Thomas and Miranda had not been loyalty in the traditional sense either. But while he remained faithful to her in spirit, he knows she has been alone all these years, and of all people deserved better than the cutting edge of his temper. He had not loved her as well as she had deserved, after they left London. 

Perhaps at first it could have been forgiven for the grief they both suffered, but a decade has since passed and this is yet another sin writ on his soul, higher perhaps than all his other sins combined. 

Her hands are calloused in his, showing the signs of age and wear, but she is beautiful still. He brings her knuckles to his mouth and presses soft kisses to her skin, in awe of the way her grip tightens in his, almost the way it had when they were younger, and far more carefree. 

Actions have always been easier than words for him, though he has a way with the latter. She deserves more than his usual mash of grandiose half-truths. He looks up at her and is gladdened to see that she is looking back at him, that there is still familiar warmth in her gaze. She smiles slightly at him, the memory of a kiss in the corner of her mouth, now worn away.

“I love you dearly, Miranda,” he whispers, trying to convey his sincerity. The words feel light and cheap, like they could never convey the depth of his emotion, but he has to try. 

He has always been proud, but not unreasonably so. He has never been ashamed of lowering himself, for the right cause. 

“And I you, James,” she replies easily, and perhaps that is not what had been in doubt. 

“I have not shown it through my actions or words, but if not for you, I would not have survived this long.” She tries to speak, but he would not have her grant forgiveness so easily. “I was wrong. There is no doubt about it. I would have taken us to our deaths, if we had pursued Thomas’ date, in London. I am not a happy man as you well know, but causing you harm, even at the hands of others, would have grieved me as much as Thomas’ loss, if not more. You have been a true companion for half my life and my words are poor thanks, but you should have them nonetheless.” 

She sighs and one of her hands slips out of his. For a moment he is unspeakably upset, until she cups it around his grizzled cheek, tilting his face up so that she can meet his eyes. 

“My darling,” she says, and his entire face goes hot. That is what she used to call Thomas and him when they were all together, the three of them; her darlings. It has been an age since he heard these words from her lips. “My darling, I love you too. And I forgive you. I know your temper,” she says, and takes her own turn to cut him off. “I know your temper better than you think, my love. Harsh words are but pinpricks. I know your heart.” 

He presses his own hand over Miranda’s and tilts his face into it, a tender caress when they have been few and far apart in recent years. Thomas had asked him to love and protect Miranda, and he should have done better for her own sake, if not for Thomas’ dying wishes. 

“You believe that I loved Thomas more than I loved you, and he, I. But while our love was forbidden and more daring for it, you were always the centre of us, which kept us from overbalancing.”

“It’s not as though our love was any less illicit, my love,” she says, teasing. “The only side which was legitimate was Thomas and I, and hardly even that for how frequently you shared our marital bed.”

He can’t help but grin at that, the sideways one which was once so common when he was with his lovers, which crept across his face incrementally like a sunrise, surprising even him with how quick it was to arrive. It is possibly first the time in years he has thought of their affair fondly, with more joy than regret. 

“You always did get the short end of the stick,” he admits ruefully. “If I’d punched every man who insinuated your infidelity, I’d have been hung long before.” Not to mention, she rarely approved of her honour being defended by fists, no matter how much Thomas might have approved. She sighs but doesn’t speak, only trails her fingertips down his prickly jawline. 

“I never did think that, you know?” she says after long minutes pass. “I never did think that I had the short end of the stick, or that I was less valued amongst us three. Not truly. Neither Thomas nor I were jealous of each other, and my only gripe was that his indiscretions received less scrutiny than mine, and that was more a gripe against the world than against him. But when we found you, something changed between us. It was as though you had been the missing piece to our little puzzle, rough edges and all. We stopped looking outwards because we could not look away from you.” She’s silent for a moment, as if she’s considering a thought. “I think I would have given up my life in London in a heartbeat, if I could have kept the two of you.” Her voice is tainted with sorrow, and he knows what she means. 

She had saved his life by asking him to leave London. The sacrifice had not come cheap, for her. 

“I cannot yet rest,” he admits after a long moment. “I cannot yet retire to your home so that we may spend our remaining days in peace.” It is not worth mentioning that he wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it walked up and slapped him in the face. “But one day, if you still wish it, I would like to live with you as I should have, all these years.”

Her smile is like a source of light, radiant and warm. “Nothing would be better, my darling,” she says, and kisses him softly, sweetly, pouring years of tender feelings into him until he feels his purpose returning. Perhaps now, with a glimmering future ahead, this doesn’t have to end in a watery grave, the way he thought it would. 

A knock on the cabin door interrupts their silent contemplation, and he lets her help him up before drawing her into a hug. “I love you terribly, Miranda,” he whispers into her hair, fragrant with the memory of lavender soap. “I’m glad you’re here.” There isn’t a soul in the world who would care for him, if not for her. He is selfish, but he could not bear to lose her.

She squeezes him tight, arms stronger than her slight frame would suggest, though he shouldn’t be surprised; she’s been holding him up for years. “I’m glad I’m here, too.” She pulls away and studies him, and he looks back, filling his heart to the brim. In his mind’s eye he can still see her in her green silk dress, hair in dark coils on top of her head, precious stones glittering around her throat, in London before everything fell apart. The curve of her spine had been utterly enchanting the first time they met, and it still is now, even clothed with cheap fabric and worn with age, her hair shot with silver. 

“Now,” she says, wearing a smile as mischievous as the first time she knocked on the door of his bedsit. “Unto the breach, once more?” 

He offers her his arm and a smile. “Together, my lady.”

**Author's Note:**

> RL is kicking my ass. I started writing this in early June, which is when I started watching s03e07 and introduced the show to my parents, my sister, and another friend. It's now August, I still haven't finished s03e07, and everyone whom I introduced this show to has watched the entire thing. 
> 
> In summary, pls send love.


End file.
